Gina Belafonte - Life Cycles

 

Growing up in New York city in the 1960s and 1970s, Upper West Side, the liberal Mecca of Manhattan. My parents would organize meetings and throw parties that would go on way past my bedtime. I can still hear the hushed tones and the burst of laughter from my father coming from the living room, and the sound of the rhythm of the click in my mother's ankle as she would walk down the very long hallway, past my bedroom into hers, ice clinking in the glass of her cocktail. I knew big things were going on down the hall, and I so wanted to be a part of them. 

 

You see, my parents were very busy people. They were two of many strategists, architects and funders of the 1960 Civil Rights Movement. They were both accomplished artists in their own right. They were super busy. They were going out all the time or entertaining at home. And in preparation for these events, I would quietly, so as not to disturb her, tiptoe into my parents’ brown wallpapered bathroom covered in mirrors and just perch myself on the bidet. [audience laughter] 

 

I would just stare up at my mom in raptured fascination as she would put on her face, as she would call it. I watched her as she smoked her Philip Morris filtered cigarettes in between makeup applications and sipped her, at that time, scotch on the rocks. I studied as she took the black Maybelline eyebrow pencil and made that perfectly curved arch and perfect eyeliner and wings and the L'Oreal burgundy lip liner that she would etch the borders of her mouth and fill in with that frosted, beautiful pink. Oh, perfection. Oh, I just adored her. She was the most beautiful and fascinating woman in the world to me. 

 

These were stolen moments for me, because my mom was busy, she was living that big life. She got written up in a magazine saying that she was one of the best dressed women of Manhattan. You can imagine going out two to three times a week puts a heavy burden on a wardrobe. [audience laughter] But she would gift me some of these clothes. And I loved it. But as a young adult, there was a few that were a little inappropriate for my age, but hey, this was the 1970s, you know, women's lib and all. If I were to go out with her to any of these events, she would ensure that my appearance was on par with hers. 

 

My mother, she dressed to the nines, whether it was a tailored suit for the meeting of a head of state or a Galanos gown to an award show or an African dashiki to a drumming circle. My mother knew exactly what to wear. So, she made sure that I looked good too. She referred to me as her clone, which was a title that I so cherished and wore with pride. When I was in my mid-teens, I started to investigate my own sense of style, much to my mother's chagrin. There was this incredible antique clothing store in my neighborhood called Jezebel's. And there were all these amazing antique dresses that just hung on the walls. This place was magic. There were old piano shawls that just slumbered over the standing lamps of this heavily Killian and Persian carpeted floor. There were racks and racks of clothes, antique dresses, old Hawaiian shirts, wide leg khaki pants from the 1940s. 

 

This all became my new sense of style, this bohemian chic. I remember coming home one day after hanging out with my friends and my mother greeted me at the door, now, vodka in hand. It was 5 o’clock somewhere. She took one look at me and she said, “What are you wearing?” In a very poor attempt at trying to defend my new sense of style, she interrupted me and she said, “Ah, this just must be a phase,” and off she walked down that long hallway. A phase? I was devastated. Coming from one of the best dressed women in Manhattan. I mean, this really took me out. I was in a crisis. It was traumatizing. 

 

I, later on, was introduced to a spiritual practice. Because you see, my parents had been doing Freudian therapy for about 40 years at this point. I knew that I needed other sensibilities to help me navigate through this ongoing search for identity. So, I was introduced to the path work. The path work was about-- it's about responsibility and it's about accountability. At first, I was a little scared. I could hear my mother in my head going, “Ugh, you're not going to come home with a peach sheet wrapped around you slinging finger cymbals, are you?” And of course, she didn't say that. She would never say that. But that's what I heard in my head. But I decided to give it a go anyway. 

 

So, I'm working the practice. Early on, as I'm starting to get the flow of how to peel the onion and understand-- It was interesting, because it was sort of like Freudian psychology meets spirituality. So, it was like where I was coming from to where I was going. One evening, we were on a workcation, we'll call it, mM dad was performing at the Golden Nugget in Reno, and he had invited the whole family, my sister, their husband, my brother, his significant other, my significant other at the time. It was like a Christmas to New Year's vacation time. We were staying in this beautiful massive cabin in the snowy woods of Lake Tahoe. 

 

We were at dinner at the house, and my father had already left for theater. And there was a fair amount of drinking going on. And my mother, now, rum in hand, said something that so triggered me, that I just got up and said, “I can't take it when you drink.” We got into it. I mean, we got into a staring contest. When I say, we got into it, I mean, we got into it. So, we very quickly excused ourselves from the table, and we went downstairs into this other library, den room in this cabin and we had it out. And I said to her, “You know what? I got to start creating some boundaries. I can't take it when you drink. I just can't. I don't like the criticism, the judgment. You're always talking to me about different members of the family. You know what? If we're out and you're drinking, I am going to remove myself from the premises.” 

 

Well, she looked at me and she stood up and she said, “You can't tell me what I can and cannot say to you.” With whatever courage I could muster, I took a deep breath to work this newfound practice and I looked at her and I said, “Oh, but I can.” This was huge. I thought, oh, my God, what have I done? I've been colluding with this woman for her love since I'm a kid. We may never speak again. 

 

Well, after many years of arguments and extremely punishing behavior, we still do talk. But I realized when my daughter was born, I couldn't leave her alone with her grandmother. I just couldn't trust how my mother would be when she was inebriated. I didn't know what she-- She would never hurt her granddaughter. She loved her. She would never do anything on purpose. She wouldn't hurt a fly. But what I was most concerned on is about what she might say. 

 

You see, when my daughter started school, she started to dress herself. Let's just say, she was like the living embodiment of Pippi Longstocking. [audience laughter] Yeah. No, she would get bright colors with prints, and polka dots, and stripes and sometimes all at once. I would look at her and I would hear my mother in my head and saying to me like, “What are you wearing?” And of course, I wouldn't say anything, because I wanted to nurture her creativity and her exploration of self. I would think to myself, oh, well, this just must be a phase. [audience laughter] I knew that in those moments, I was becoming the mother I always wanted to be. And that working this practice, I was, in fact, going to have to start to parent myself. 

 

Well, it's been really cool now, because my daughter, who has grown into becoming a brilliant, talented, beautiful young lady with an impeccable sense of style and grace, which I would say she gets probably about 85% to 90% from her grandmother, [audience laughter] has been so helpful to me. You see, we have now moved my mom from her 93-year-old big life in New York City to her last chapter, but new adventure here in Los Angeles. Yeah. I still have to work my practice. I find my patience gets tested, but I take a deep breath. But I sometimes ask her to do something and she's a little confused or she takes more time. I think about that song, the Cats in the Cradle, where the kid no longer has the time for the parent. I just do my best to work my practice. 

 

I think about Shakespeare's monologue from As You Like It, All the world’s a stage. He really got it on the nose. Because my mom really needs help with everything now. So, it is I who now takes that black Maybelline eyebrow pencil, and I make that perfectly curved arch, and I take that burgundy lip liner, and I etch the border of her mouth and fill it in with that frosted pink. It is I who now dresses her. And God, has a sense of humor. [audience laughter] 

 

She has grown very fond of tight skinny jeans. [audience laughter] Yeah. She used to want to hide her skinny legs, now she wants to show them off. She's grown really fond of this red Yves Saint Laurent scarf that she must wear all the time. And I'm like, “Hey mom, come on, why don't we try a different scarf today?” She's like, “Oh, no, I want my Yves Saint Laurent scarf.” I think to myself, well, this just must be a phase. [audience laughter] But I realize it might be the last phase, because as the monologue says, she will slip into the last scene of all that ends this strange history, second childishness and mere oblivion. Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. So, I work that practice, and I take a deep breath, and I reclaim my patience and I reclaim my raptured fascination with the most beautiful woman in the world to me, my mom. Thank you.